


Arabian Nights

by snakeling



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Incest, Multi, Plot What Plot, Threesome, Threesome - Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-10
Updated: 2006-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:32:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeling/pseuds/snakeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friending Hermione Granger was probably the best decision in Viktor's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arabian Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Peppery_Lime](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Peppery_Lime).



Viktor is bored. He'd never have thought he'd say that while watching a Quidditch match — and a World Cup semi-final, at that — but there it is.

The game’s boring, the players are boring, even the crowd seems uninspired. Viktor moves his Omnioculars, looking at the people in the stands, amusing himself with trying to recognise people, or see resemblances with people he knows.

His eyes stop on a flash of red hair, standing out in the mostly brown-haired crowd. Viktor adjusts the setting of the Omnioculars, until he can see the faces clearly. He knows these people. They’re familiar, but Viktor just can’t recall where or when he met them.

A clamour rises from the public. The Snitch has been caught, Germany won, 270-120. Good for them; Viktor can’t bring himself to care.

The red-haired men rise and begin to leave, and suddenly Viktor remembers who they are: friends of Hermione’s. He still can’t remember their names, but he knows that the redhead that was always with Hermione was called Ron. Ron’s brothers, then, the twins.

Viktor hopes he can see them outside of the Pitch. He hasn’t heard anything of Hermione since the end of the British war, and his letters to her parents have remained unanswered. He fears the worst.

* * *

It’s much later, when Viktor is queuing for water — and remembering a time when his name would allow him to jump to the head of any queue — that he sees the twins again.

They are passing by, their own buckets full already. Viktor looks longingly at his own empty bucket, but he knows an opportunity like this might not rise again. He leaves the queue and starts jogging towards the twins.

“Excuse me!” Their name comes back to Viktor unexpectedly. “Weasley!”

They both turn, and smile identical grins when they recognise Viktor.

“Krum!”

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“I came to see the matches, like you.” He hesitates, but there’s no point in dallying. “Tell me, do you know how Hermione is? I haven’t heard about her since before the end of the war, and...”

The twins look at each other, then at Viktor.

“Look, why don’t you come to our tent for a moment?” says one.

“Have a bit of privacy, and all that,” continues the other.

Viktor’s heart sinks. Something must have happened to Hermione, he’s sure of it.

The twins take him by the shoulders and pull him to their tent. It looks rather bedraggled near the others, but when Viktor enters, he’s awed by a décor worthy of the Arabian Nights. Dozens of luxurious cushions are carelessly thrown about on Persian rugs.

Viktor feels like a sort of breeze all over his body as he steps in: his clothes have been transformed to loose trousers and a long, embroidered caftan. His shoes are replaced by babouches. The twins are wearing similar clothes, clashing oddly with their thoroughly Celtic hair. Viktor feels as if he’s drunk and seeing double.

“Cool, isn’t it?” one says. “We spent weeks perfecting this charm.”

“Don’t worry, your clothes will transform back when you go out.”

Bewildered, Viktor can only nod. “Er, Hermione?”

“Right.”

They sober instantly, their faces becoming serious.

“Sit down, please.”

They both sit cross-legged on the cushions. Viktor imitates them, trepidation growing.

“I’m not sure how to say it. . .”

“She’s dead, that’s it? Or worse?” Viktor knows that Hermione would prefer death to the loss of her mind. For her own sake, he hopes she isn’t actually mad or catatonic in a hospital.

“No!”

“Not at all!”

They wear identical expressions of dismay.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Hermione is well, very well.”

“In fact, that’s kind of the problem.”

Viktor frowns. “How is that a problem?”

“Hermione is about to get married,” one twin says apologetically.

Viktor breaks out into a grin. “Really? That’s wonderful! Who is she marrying?”

The twins are gaping in surprise. “We were under the impression that you were in love with her.”

Viktor shakes his head. “No, we’re just good friends. In fact, Hermione helped me realise that I prefer men.” He pauses. “I. . . didn’t mean it that way.”

Identical grins spread on the twins’ faces as Viktor look on, a little worried.

“You do? What an amusing coincidence, my dear George.”

“Not a coincidence, my dear Fred. A stroke of Fate.”

Viktor doesn’t see them move, but suddenly he’s on his back among the cushions, and both twins are bent over him, each one straddling a thigh. Viktor swallows nervously and says the first thing that comes to mind.

“I take it you like men, too.”

The twin on his left thigh smiles and says, “Men, women. . . It’s all good to us, isn’t it George?”

“There’s nothing like having someone to share,” George approves.

“Sh-share?” Viktor’s gaze keeps going between the two. Surely they don’t mean. . .?

One of the twins — Fred, his brain supplies — rolls down until he’s stretched out along Viktor, in the perfect position to kiss him slowly, almost leisurely. George shifts until he’s straddling both of Viktor’s legs. He slides his hands under Viktor’s caftan until he uncovers some skin and kisses it with a warm, wet open mouth.

Surely it’s wrong, two brothers like that. A small pinch of his nipple through the light cotton of his caftan drives such thoughts out of his head.

“Just enjoy it,” Fred whispers against his mouth.

Tentatively Viktor raises a hand. He runs it along Fred’s side, feeling him shiver under his fingers. Emboldened by his success, he grips Fred’s head and moves his mouth from Fred’s to his cheek, He suckles on the lobe of his ear, and runs his tongue around the folds, delighted by the harsh sounds of Fred’s breathing.

Meanwhile, George isn’t keeping idle. He tugs down Viktor’s trousers and does his best to swallow his cock to the root. Viktor didn’t even know that one could do things like _that_ with one’s tongue, but oh! it feels heavenly.

Suddenly, Viktor wants to feel Fred and George against his skin. Impatiently, he tries to take his caftan off and when that fails, turns his attention to Fred’s. That one is easier and soon he can look his fill at the man.

Viktor touches a freckle in wonder. He’s never been with anyone who was red-haired, and he hadn’t imagined that freckles would extend past the arms and face. But Fred has them all over his chest. Does he have some on his cock, too? Viktor can’t wait to find out.

The pressure on his legs eases as George stands up to get rid of his clothes. Viktor takes advantage of the situation to take off his own clothes before helping Fred get naked.

He _has_ freckles on his cock. And a very nice cock it is, too. Slender and not too long, just the right size to fit perfectly in Viktor’s mouth. Delighted, Viktor touches one freckle quickly, drawing a hiss from Fred. With a wicked grin, he says, “So many freckles. . . I’m going to lick them off your body.”

“What a wonderful idea!” George says, from somewhere between his thighs. Fred doesn’t verbalise, but the urgent roll of his hips is clear enough.

Viktor tastes a line of freckles just at the juncture of Fred’s arm, then goes down, flicking a nipple on the way. George imitates him, copying his movements on Viktor, who temporarily loses track of what he is doing.

Steeling himself not to be distracted, he starts on the cluster of freckles to the left of Fred’s navel before licking down, following a trail that ends up on one of Fred’s balls. He takes it into his mouth, moaning when George does the same thing to him.

Viktor has to push Fred’s hips against the cushions to prevent him from writhing, and only his own iron self-control keeps him from doing the same thing at George’s ministrations.

With small licks of the tongue, Viktor maps every freckle on Fred’s cock, reducing him to half-articulated begging. Viktor sympathises; it _is_ maddening.

He looks up at George, and asks, “Lubricant?”

George nods. “Accio lube!”

A large jar bearing a triple W logo comes from Viktor doesn’t know where. He catches it and opens it, losing no time in coating two of his fingers with the gooey substance.

He takes Fred’s cock in his mouth at the same time he pushes a finger inside him. Fred arches on the bed with a moan of pleasure. Viktor knows what is coming, and yet he cannot help flinching when he feels George’s finger breach him. He forces himself to relax, and finally the finger slips inside.

It’s odd. Up until now, Viktor has always topped. He’s never even had the curiosity to play with himself. The sensation is different from what he thought; he feels both full and empty. Full of George’s finger, and empty because he wants more.

George adds a second finger, and then a third, following Viktor’s lead. Fred is babbling, begging for more, and Viktor crawls up his body until he can position himself at his entrance. George drapes himself over Viktor’s back and nudges him with the head of his cock.

Slowly, Viktor enters Fred; slowly, George enters Viktor. George finds a rhythm that Viktor can only follow, trapped as he is between the twins. Every time George slams into Viktor, he sends him deep into Fred. Viktor tries not to crush Fred under their combined weight, though he doesn’t think that Fred minds, or actually notices.

Viktor takes Fred’s face between his hands, balancing awkwardly on one elbow. He mashes their lips together, pulling Fred’s tongue into his mouth and sucking on it as he sucked on his cock earlier. He feels George’s mouth fasten on his neck, nibbling the tendons there, and shivers.

George thrusts deeply one last time, his hands like vices on Viktor’s hips, until Viktor is sure that he’ll have finger-shaped bruises. With a strangled groan, George comes, hiding his face in Viktor’s nape. His breath is ragged and his heartbeat wild.

They stay unmoving for a moment, long enough for George’s cock to soften and come out with a soft popping sound. Viktor can feel come leaking from his arse. It feels dirty, but in a good way.

Slowly, he begins to roll his hips, not enough to actually provide much sensation, but enough to have Fred almost mewling in distress at being teased.

Taking pity on him — and on himself — Viktor thrusts more and more deeply, his hand wrapping around Fred’s cock, pulling roughly on it. Fred has both feet braced on the ground, one hand clutching a cushion and another Viktor’s hair. His head is thrown back when he comes, spilling himself on Viktor’s hand. His throat is bare and tantalising, and Viktor cannot resist; he bites into the inviting flesh, marking Fred as he erupts deep into his arse, his cock milked by the last contractions of Fred’s orgasm.

They fall in a sticky heap into the cushions. Viktor is still inside Fred, and when he tries to get out, Fred wraps his legs around him to keep him in place. George pushes them to their sides and then lies down against Viktor’s back, arm sneaking around his waist until Viktor is utterly unable to move.

He kisses the spot below Viktor’s ear, sending fresh shivers through him, and addresses Fred over Viktor’s shoulder.

“I think we should keep this one. What do you think, Fred?”

Fred is still high on post-orgasmic bliss, but he manages to hum some sort of agreement. Viktor reaches over his shoulder to kiss George, briefly but intensely, then does the same to Fred.

“It shall be my pleasure, gentlemen.”


End file.
